Show Me What I'm Looking For
by capsicleironman
Summary: Steve was finally beginning to prove his capability and independence in the 21st century when an attack on the city leaves him blinded. Now, back at square one, he'll have to learn about more than just the future; he must learn to re-navigate his whole life.
1. Chapter 1

From the moment he'd been pulled out of the ice, the other Avengers had tip-toed around Steve as though he was time bomb bound to explode at any second. Poor old man lost in a new century, poor Steve Rogers—the man out of time, the man without a clue.

It wasn't as though he couldn't see where they were coming from. Look at it rationally and you had a story dripping in confusion and pity. Because while the world might see him as strong and brave Captain America—the face of liberty and a voice for justice—he was still just a twenty-six year old kid (ninety-six if you chose to look at it that way), and he was lost in a very strange new world.

It wasn't just the century drop that left Steve in a stress-fueled confusion either. What people often forgot was that before the ice, he was still just a fresh recruit to the army—new to war, new to the world, new to his own body. Fighting came naturally enough (after a couple hundred back-alley brawls, it better have). Bony fists raised in defense against your average everyday bully turned to a vibranium shield raised in defense against a raging war. A small but determined frame turned into a muscular and capable shell—just another twenty-something kid fighting the good fight while the whole world looked on in anticipation.

Now, 70 years later, nothing had really changed. Sure, the world was brighter—if only because there were more city lights and satellites hovering up in the sky. Everything was a bit shinier and life moved a bit faster, and distance had sort of lost its meaning because no matter how far someone got, you could call them up or send them a text—or hell, an email if you were "old fashioned." Steve could stare, enthralled for hours, at all the quote on quote "outdated" pieces of history—at the first cellphones and the "ancient" computers, at the first TV's without antennas, and all the new cars. The world had already moved on—these great works of innovation tossed aside for the next great thing—and Steve was sprinting to catch up.

Despite popular belief, he was reaching the finish line just fine.

Whether he was twenty-six or ninety-six, it didn't matter. Steve had the brain power and attention of a young man. Perhaps he would always have the mind of a young man, and despite his team's determination to walk him through the future "step by step," he was doing quite well on his own.

Steve had always been fascinated by technology. He could still remember with vivid clarity standing in an awestruck crowd as Howard Stark attempted to lift the first "flying" car into the air. Steve was no inventor himself, but even back then, he could imagine the wonders of the future, and he'd spend hours doodling these ideas in his sketchbooks. So when Howard's son handed him a cell-phone seventy years later, and it beeped a hundred different ways, told him the time, and the weather, and what the team was doing at any given moment, he wasn't shocked. He wasn't scared, he wasn't nervous, he wasn't opposed at all; he was flat out fascinated, gleeful even, if he was being completely honest with himself.

And yet, here he was, four months into his life as a member of the twenty-first century, and his team was still explaining video-chats to him as though he hadn't done his own research and figured out the concept months ago.

"It's so we can talk to each other, you know, actually see what the others are doing out on the field instead of just hearing each other's voices. It's actually been around for a while, but Tony's—well, you know Tony—always reinventing the wheel and turning it into a plane. It's pretty cool now, super advanced." Clint sat perched on the edge of the couch with a tablet in his hand. He hesitated, his fingers twitching over the app for the new program, like if he opened it, Steve's head might explode. "Do you want to check it out?"

Steve nodded, and even now, used to these interactions as he was, he didn't know whether to laugh or sigh. His team didn't mean anything by it—he was sure of that much. If anything, they were overly compassionate, careful about even the slightest things that might disturb him. Like refraining from using references he wouldn't understand or ranting on too much about history before first explaining to him what had happened. He knew what they were doing, and he appreciated it. Even now, with several months under his belt, Steve found himself endlessly frustrated at the world. There was a reason he kept destroying Tony's punching bag collection, and he couldn't deny that on more than one occasion, the holes left in the walls were from his fists and not Thor's hammer flying haphazardly through the halls.

But Steve was nothing if not stubborn. It would be easy—was easy—to let his team cater to his ineptitudes and play his six varying teachers along the way. Truth be told, he could use the help, and it wasn't like they were alone; everyday, SHIELD was knocking at his door to pester him with new "world exploring assignments" and lessons. The attention—the care—made sense, was necessary even.

So why did their coddling drive him absolutely mad?

Clint never did get the chance to show him the new program, however. Just as he pressed down on the app, the Avengers Alert blasted through the tower, filling the living room with the sound of a blaring, screeching alarm.

They came one by one as Steve knew they would. Dysfunctional as his team of misfits might be at times, they were a dedicated and loyal bunch. In a heartbeat, Clint had replaced his tablet for a quiver of arrows and his bow; Natasha had appeared, stealth like as always in the doorway, guns at the ready; Thor's booming voice echoed through the halls, hammer raised as he cried out, "To battle!"; from the kitchen, Bruce had removed his glasses and his well-pressed t-shirt; and outside the window, a blur of red and gold shot past—the first to be thrown into the fray.

The fight that day revolved around several very large, very alien creatures that shot rays of light out of their eye sockets and could rip through concrete with their razor sharp claws. There were seven in all, and it only took about thirty seconds to determine that Hawk Eye's arrows could not pierce their surprisingly thick hide, nor could Iron Man's repulsor rays make a dent. Being outnumbered and outmatched was, unfortunately, par for the course, however, so rather than give up and call it a day, they put their heads together and searched for the weak spots.

"It's underbelly is susceptible," Natasha reported, aiming her gun at the nearest creature just as it reared onto its back paws for its next attack. The bullet sailed straight ahead and landed in the fleshy surface of the creature's stomach. It howled in pain, falling onto its back and twisting in agony.

The team wasted no time. While the creature was down and vulnerable, they finished it off and turned their attention to the other six. The remaining creatures, it seemed, were attempting to devour Times Square for an early morning snack. A purple drool dripped down several high-rise windows and fell into oozing piles on the street below.

Steve cringed, wondering just how long it would take them to clean up this mess, and also remembering one of Tony's last rants. One hand in the air and one gripping tightly at his oversized mug of coffee, Tony had yelled for nearly an hour about how much the Avenger's "rescue missions" were costing him. Steve might have felt bad about the whole situation if Tony hadn't looked so damn happy. (Given, Tony was frowning and cursing at the time, but underneath all the sass and exasperation, Steve knew there was a man desperately relived to be part of a team, relieved to be doing something good—something right. If anyone understood that, it was Steve. He'd spent far too long as the skinny, sickly outsider, fighting for a chance.) Steve had enough back pay saved up, and if Tony let him, he'd gladly cover the finances for the next hundred missions, but he knew it would never work.

"Cap, you got a fluffball coming in on your left," said a voice through the comms as, speak of the devil, Iron Man flew by overhead. He waited half a second for the creature to pounce, exposing its weak spots, then blasted it to smithereens.

"Thanks," Steve said. Without missing a beat, he turned and tossed his shield at the next approaching beast and watched as it toppled over from the pressure of the red, white, and blue to the gut. Natasha finished it off with a few well-aimed shots.

As Steve stepped forward to grab his shield, a great piercing pain took him from behind, and he spun just in time to find himself face to face with another creature. The last thing he remembered seeing was a pair of glowing, fiery red eyes, and a tuff of mangled yellow hair, and then everything went black.

Steve woke up several hours later—or perhaps days, he couldn't be sure—with an IV in his arm and the sound of a machine whirring from somewhere nearby. The overwhelming smell of anesthetics and lingering decay made it quite clear that he was in the hospital. If that wasn't enough, the scratch of a the gown on his back and the thick press of bandages on his eyes confirmed it. His arms ached and his head was spinning—the usual sensations that accompanied the finale of a battle—but he could sense no other injuries; at least nothing seemed to be bleeding, all his limbs seemed to be present, and unless this was some very disappointing heaven, he was alive.

There was just one small, pressing problem: he couldn't see a damned thing.


	2. Chapter 2

The Avengers hovered over Steve's bed. At least, most of the Avengers did. Tony and the Iron Man suit were noticeably missing from the hospital room. The other four, however, were huddled together—wet and bloody and clearly post-mission, but beaming to see Steve awake. Bruce stood in the corner, a hospital blanket wrapped around him because the Hulk had ripped off his clothes. Natasha, sporting a black eye and a bloody lip was closest to Steve's bed, treating him to one of her rare, kind smiles. Thor was snacking nervously on a pop-tart and standing like a guard dog by Steve's side. And Clint, well—Clint was narrating the entire situation, as all Steve could see was an empty expanse of pure, uninterrupted darkness.

"Ouh! Oh, Natasha just hit me," Clint said. "Ouch! She hit me again."

Clint's voice grew further away while Natasha's came closer. "The doctors said it should be temporary, Steve," she said. "Whatever we were dealing with out there, they had some sort of lazors for eyes, and unfortunately, you made contact. They're working on finding something to fix this."

"These foul creatures are not from Asgard, but I will scour the nine realms to find its origins and cure your ailment," boomed Thor's pop-tart ridden voice; though Steve could not visually place him in the room, he imagined he must have been nearby because his voice was nearly deafening. Somehow, Steve found this endlessly comforting.

"Tony and I will work on it too," Bruce assured him.

Steve nodded. Silence fell within the room. He knew what his friends must be thinking—that he was scared, lost, and confused, that he would need time to adjust, to mull the word 'blind' over in his mind and come to terms with its endless consequences. Maybe he did. Maybe it would come like a thief in the night and catch him off guard—a few minutes from now, a few hours, a few days. (It would be fitting, wouldn't it, for reality to sneak up on him, as he'd never see life coming again, would he? Never again would he be able to predict the world in front of him.)

Perhaps he'd be sitting at the kitchen table back at the tower and he'd reached for the butter only to find it wasn't where it normally was, and then it would hit him; he was blind, and he couldn't see the butter, and he couldn't see his friends, and the rest of his life would be nothing but a series of repeated memories constantly fluttering through his darkened mind.

But right then, sitting in a stuffy hospital gown in a quiet hospital room, there was nothing. And not just the nothing of his sight (or lack thereof). There was no fear, no worry, no crippling panic or existential crisis. If there was anything Steve had learned in the last year or so of his life it was that nothing was ever what it seemed. For twenty-six years, he'd lived with disabilities—asthma, anemia, pneumonia, scoliosis, you name it. And then one afternoon, he'd stepped out of a lab, two feet taller, bursting with muscles and an immune system that could rival any disease known to man. For months, he'd fought Nazis and the Red Skull in 1940's World War II, and then he woke up in the twenty-first century with a cellphone in his pocket and aliens on the street.

Life, Steve knew, was unpredictable, and if anyone was capable of handling it, it was the group of bleeding, bruised individuals in front of him.

Steve had made friends with a god of epic proportions—a looming, caped, flying force of thunder that made no false promises when he said he'd search the entire universe to help him. Then there were the two trained-assassins, endlessly loyal and unbelievably skilled, who would, with or without Steve's permission, conquer the world if it meant they could cure his current "predicament." And there was Bruce and Tony; two of the best minds the world had ever known—scientists extraordinaire, geniuses in their own like who complemented each other flawlessly: an engineer and a biologist. If Thor, Clint, Natasha, Bruce, and Tony couldn't fix him, well, then maybe Steve would start worrying.

Right now, it was just sort of annoying.

He was discharged within the hour. With Natasha supporting him on his left, Clint on his right, and Bruce and Thor trailing behind discouraging"bothersome" fans and reporters, Steve made it out to the cab and back to the tower in one piece. Well, more like several pieces because while his heart and lungs and limbs all worked fine, he'd bump into the wall without his friends' help. So they moved like one large walking talking jigsaw puzzle with Steve at the center.

It was frustrating at best and humiliating at worst.

Tony was already there when they arrived, the group of them clambering through the elevator doors and dropping Steve as carefully as they could onto the couch. He fell, slumping back into the comfortable (expensive, Tony-approved) fabric, when he heard the man's voice from the stairs. "Fucking hell, about time, what-hey Cap," the sound of his footsteps came to a sudden holt, there were as an exchange of several hushed whispers, and then Tony cleared his throat. "So we'll work on that," he concluded simply.

Steve laughed. "Thanks Tony." He reclined back into the couch as far as the fabric would let him, allowing the pain of the day—the stress—drain out of him. Strange that when the day's events were added up—all the pain, all the fighting, the loss of his sight—and the one though that had plagued his mind through it all was, "well, I sure hope Tony is okay." He wasn't disappointed—he wasn't; Tony was safe and, from the sound of it, uninjured, and Steve wouldn't trade that for the world—but he'd just sort of thought that if Tony wasn't at the hospital with the rest, it was for a reason.

Sure, Tony and Steve had had a rough start. Perhaps it had taken them longer to bond than they had with the rest of the team. But Tony was, well, Tony, and Steve loved his team to death—each one of them individually and in their own ways—but Tony was different. How it happened, Steve still wasn't sure, but somewhere along the line—between movie nights and saving the world—Tony had become his best friend, and it was this relationship more than anything that had kept Steve sane through his cross-century transition.

Tony was brash and sarcastic, and he'd done an excellent job of fooling them all—Steve more than anyone—but with that nuke on his back, zooming toward the wormhole without a second's hesitation, his facade had fallen. Tony was a hero, and Steve would never doubt it again.

Since that monumental day—the day they'd all been forced to come together as a team, chaotic and uncoordinated, but miraculously successful—a lot had changed. They still argued, all six of them at each other's throats at a moment's notice, but they'd also found ways to solve it. Movies to distract when the fight was unsolvable, food and tea to calm when the time came to sit and work out their differences. They all worked differently, yes, but they all fit together.

Clint fit into the spaces in the ceiling, on the arms of the couches and the tops of counters. Natasha seeped into the shadows, pressed into the spots between them—feet in your lap, and head on your shoulder, barking laughter coming when you least expected it. Thor took up every doorway, whole sofas to himself and a carton of eggs per morning, bright smiles and cautious eyes and a guilt for his brother's actions that never quite left his strong frame. Bruce existed in the places in between, taking up no room at all until it took up everything, quite until he was screaming, careful until he was smashing.

And then there was Tony. Tony who was loud and brash and too much in all the right ways. He was showy and extravagant, too easy with his wallet but endlessly charitable in the process. He gave them all a home. Steve's room was just old fashioned enough to keep him comfortable but modern enough to introduce him to the new century. Bruce's room was spare and peaceful, made for meditation, for an escape, a place he could chase away the anger. Clint's room as high as could be and had its own fridge and an amazing view. Natasha's was equipped for death but also music and ballet and the beautiful things of the world that no one took the time to realize she might love. Thor's was filled with tools, computers and cameras to talk to Jane, equipment to look at the stars and think of home, machines to teach him of earth and of food and of history and whatever else the god might want to know about while so far away from his homeland.

Tony was rude and sarcastic and he wouldn't say he loved them, wouldn't say he needed them, but he showed it in every smile and every time he chose to spend movie night with them over a night in the lab.

Tony cared—Steve was sure of this. Tony truly, honestly cared, and still he hadn't showed up. Six spots around Steve's hospital bed, and only five were filled. And that was fine. Steve could take care of himself, and even if he couldn't, five friends was more than enough to make do. Steve—already aching at the thought that he'd never again see Tony's face—was _not_ at all disappointed, wasn't longing or sulking. He was simply curious, lightly concerned, briefly wondering about Tony's absence, and that was all. (And as long as he kept telling himself that, things would be fine.)

He was Captain America, and if the world was going to throw that pressure on his shoulders, he sure as hell better support it. Thanks to the serum, his shoulders were broad, and could take it.

Until now.

"Steve, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," said Natasha.

"Are you in need of sustenance, friend?" asked Thor.

Bruce sat down on Steve's left. "Anything to drink?"

Clint took up position on his right. "Help to your room?"

Steve massaged his temples and reminded himself once again that his friends were only trying to help. He was l_ucky_ to have friends that were so concerned, blessed to have any attention at all from a group of people with so many more pressing matters taking up their time. What purpose did a god, two world-class spies, and a couple of geniuses have wasting their breath fussing over him? This sort of catering was a privilege, an honor even. So why did he feel so frustrated?

"Uh, I could use some water," he said. Now that he thought about it, his throat _was_ rather dry. His back was also aching and his shoulder was throbbing where the creature had bore its claws into his flesh, but those were all secondary matters; he had the serum, and they would heal. His blindness was a far more pressing matter, and there was no reason to bother his team with the rest.

"Tony's already in the kitchen," Bruce replied. "Tony! Could you grab Steve a bottle of water?"

"He knows where they are," came Tony's voice from several feet away. "Ten steps to the left, four to the right, five left again, and they're on the top shelf."

Steve thought he could actually _hear_ Bruce rolling his eyes. "I'll get it," he mumbled. The sudden lack of pressure beside him told Steve that the other man had stood up. He reached out and grabbed Bruce's arm, gently bringing the scientists' movements to a holt.

"I've got it," he said. "I can do it."

Using the couch as a source of balance, Steve felt his way to his feet. _Ten steps to the left._ He counted in his head—one, two, three—until he'd reached the end then turned to right—one, two, three, four. He pivoted again and took five more steps, reaching out his hand and…he touched the metal of the fridge. Something burst inside his chest like it was his birthday and Christmas morning all combined (at least, the way he'd imagined those holidays, where there was presents and family, and not a depression and poverty). Grinning, he pulled open the fridge, fingered his way to the top shelf until he felt the cool plastic of a water bottle, and picked one up.

When he took a sip, he noticed that the water tasted better than it ever had before, and not because Tony had upgraded them to an even more expensive brand than he was already buying. It was silly, he knew, to be so happy over a little detail. He'd only walked nineteen steps, and it wasn't as though his legs were broken. But there was something redeeming about walking in the darkness and making it to the other side—his steps were his and his alone, no help or crutches by his side.

Well, he always had been stubborn.

"See," Tony said from somewhere to his left. "I told you he could do it."


	3. Chapter 3

Tony told him it was state of the art, as though Steve didn't already know. Everything Tony made was state of the art, whether it was a metal suit that saved the city on a weekly basis, a revolutionary clean energy system, or just a toaster in the communal kitchen. Tony was many things, but "simple" was not one of them, and Steve would bet everything he owned that he never would be.

So when Tony approached him on his first morning post-blindness and led him down to his workshop because he had "something to show him—figuratively speaking," well, Steve knew his life was about to change. Again.

He imagined being fitted with robotic eyes like the ones in that Terminator movie Clint had insisted they watched, or eerie glass eyes that doubled as laser beams and could saw a villain in half. It wasn't like he'd use them—wasn't like he'd even want them—but even he could appreciate the engineering genius that went behind all things 'Stark.' And all things Stark were state of the art. (And maybe it would be a little cool to have laser beam eyes, but he'd use them for good only, of course; anyway, Tony wouldn't make him anything evil. Tony was too good of a man for that.)

But Tony did not equip him with laser beam eyes. In fact, he didn't give him eyes at all. When Steve arrived down in his workshop, feeling his way past the many pieces of machinery, petting a whirring, worrying Dum-E, and trying not to trip over the scattered parts and blue prints, he expected a thousand new inventions. Never did he think Tony would hand him a cane and say, simply, "How's that feel?"

Steve shrugged. "It feels like a cane. Natasha already got me one from the hospital." As "scary" and "dangerous" as the world thought Natasha to be (and she was; it made her a vital member of their team and a force he'd never fail to admire or respect), she was also endlessly sweet, compassionate, and nurturing when she wanted to be. Their time together at SHIELD had forged a bond between them that he wouldn't trade for anything.

Not to mention, she'd brought him breakfast in bed that morning.

"It's not just a cane," Tony said. He reached out, his hand coming to rest on top of Steve's, and he was reminded with vivid certainty that while he might have lost one of his senses, it sure wasn't his sense of touch. "It's a Stark cane. AKA a cane of the future. But for your delicate and ancient sensibilities, it's also a cane of the past."

"Tony, that doesn't even make sense," Steve said.

Tony huffed. "It makes perfect sense. It's a technological masterpiece disguised as a simple cane because I know you. Now you can take it out and be normal and all that jazz while still being the sole owner of one of the coolest things in all of existence." His hand shifted over Steve's, leading the soldier's fingers over a button beneath the handhold. The cane vibrated. "Means there's something in front of you. Most basic control. That's the desk right now. But it could be anything, so when you're walking, you won't bump into anything."

Of course, that wasn't the only thing the Amazing Stark Cane could do (Tony's name, not Steve's). As Tony soon pointed out, the cane was fully equipped with motion sensors, mapping equipment, alerts, alarms—you name it. The cane could tell Steve where he was going, what was in front of him (and who), and the best routes to side-step these roadblocks. It was programmed with the exact number of steps to the workshop (twelve to the left, eight to the right, five forward, twenty to the left again, then sixteen steps down), and should he ever need the extra help, it came with easy to find buttons for emergency assistance from the other Avengers or the hospital if absolutely necessary. It was, in short, the perfect assistant.

While Steve was still trying to figure it all out, pressing each button one by one to test their capabilities (the thing was voice activated too, which ended up being much easier), Tony began handing him small little trinkets from around the workshop.

"What is this?" Steve asked as a round orb like object was placed in his palm.

"That's the point," Tony said. "You're supposed to guess. You know, one sense out and the rest all get stronger. This is for science. So guess."

Steve rolled the object around in his hand, felt the curves, the scratches in the material—metal, clearly, though what type, he couldn't be sure. "A joint? For one of the bots?" he guessed.

Tony snatched the object—whatever it was—out of his hand. "Nope. Try this." He replaced the ball like thing (Steve really did wish he would have told him what it was) with a long, heavy stick.

Steve tossed it up and down, felt the ridges, balanced the weight of it in his palm. Heavy but not too heavy. Strong. Important. "A wrench?" he tried.

"Wow, you're terrible at this." Tony took the object back—still unnamed. Rather than try again, he grabbed Steve's arm as though to get his attention, as though Steve wasn't already completely focused on the man in front of him (at least, he thought the man was in front of him; he had been a second before). "Come on Captain Senseless, we're going counting."

"Counting?" Steve repeated.

"Counting," Tony replied.

Counting, as it turned out, was just as literal as it sounded. From Tony's workbench, they counted Steve's steps to the door, then his steps up the stairs, and then his steps to the kitchen. From the kitchen, they counted his steps to the communal room (with differentiating data depending on whether he wanted to go to the couch or the single chair; he always chose the couch—he and Tony always shared the couch). Next was to his room, and from his room they tracked the entire tower—gym, library, the bar (though Steve rarely ever used it), the others' rooms (which were general 'stay away' zones unless there was an emergency), and the other assorted and elaborate places that Tony was keeping in Stark Tower.

It took most of the day, but by the end of it, Steve had mapped out the entire house—each room to the next—and JARVIS had recorded each and ever number to memory.

"They're stored in the cane," Tony explained. "You can access them if you ever forget. Idea is that over time, you'll start memorizing it all and you can access the whole tower on your own."

Steve grinned despite himself; 'on your own' had a ring to it he just couldn't ignore. Breakfast in bed and kind words from friends were great, but the rush that came from independence, that sense of pride from completing something on your own—it was a feeling unprecedented and irreplaceable in his life.

"When did you have time to do all this?" Steve asked. He stopped walking (three steps from the gym, a turn to the right, and then more down the hallway), and rested against the wall. "This system is amazing, but it seems like a lot of work. And all of this just happened."

Steve couldn't see Tony waving away the praise (okay, he couldn't see anything), but he could sense it. "Got it done last night. Pretty simple coding system. Anyway, bout time S.I. breaks into that market. I'll have to pitch the idea to Pepper which means a mountain of paperwork, and a board meeting, and…"

Tony continued ranting for quite some time, but Steve had already stepped forward, his cane left behind as he reached out and found his friend's shoulders with both hands. Giving them a small squeeze, he beamed and hoped Tony could see just how happy he really was, even if he couldn't himself. "Thank you," he said. "This is really going to help. Even if all this is just temporary."

Tony hesitated. It wasn't something he did often. Steve froze, dropping his hands to his sides, his smile instantly gone. "What?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Tony said immediately. "You're right. It's temporary. I'll figure it out. I'll fix it. Er, uh, Bruce and I will fix it. Just…you don't worry about a thing. It's a simple fix. Easy peasy. Piece of cake. Could do it in my sleep."

He was doing it again—ranting and getting ridiculous to cover that he was worried, that he was scared, uncertain even because apparently geniuses didn't get uncertain, and it was insult Tony took very seriously (Steve had learned that very quickly in their relationship). But Steve saw through the act as he always had, and he didn't need his vision to do so.

"I trust you," he said simply. "Thanks again Tony."

Steve grabbed his cane and, using it as a guide, turned and walked back to the communal room (one step, two step, three…).


	4. Chapter 4

Steve liked to think of himself as an optimist—an idealist of sorts—and while it wasn't the easiest mind set to have when you'd been thrust around through the expanses of time and found yourself at war in both, it was all he had. For Steve, optimism was the life boat that kept him from drowning. He wasn't naive—not by any sense of the word—but he simply refused to give up on life, at least not yet. Not if he could help it.

He hadn't had much time with his mother before she passed, but in the time he had, she'd taught him well—taught him to fight injustice, to be a good man, a respectable man, and to always keep fighting, even when the battle seemed lost.

Perhaps it was a lesson he'd taken too seriously. Perhaps he'd stood up too many times when he should have backed down, perhaps he'd had his ass handed to him more times than he could count, and perhaps—perhaps—his optimism had turned to stubbornness over time, but through it all, he kept hope. In the next fight, he'd win; the next time, they'd stop picking on him, on his friends, on his home, on the weak; the next time, the world be a better place—in a new time, in a new world.

Yes, Steve was an optimist, but even he couldn't keep blindly hoping (wasn't that fitting) for a cure when two weeks passed and they'd come up with nothing. If the doctors had said there was no fix, if the best of the best in the medical world had given up, he might have still believed—dumbly, desperately. But when he found a passed out Tony Stark, face buried in a stack of medical books, drooling, wrench in one hand, and Bruce Banner sprawled across the floor with another stack of research and notebooks on his chest, well, Steve knew the game was up. They'd tried, and it was time to face the facts.

For thirteen days, Thor had searched the universe and found nothing, and if that wasn't a big neon sign announcing the inevitability of Steve's future, he didn't know what was. Together, Natasha and Clint had interrogated most of the human world and come up with more questions than they had answers. The doctors were confused, the experts were dumbstruck, and Steve—counting his way through the tower one step at a time—was learning to live as a blind man. Apparently forever.

And optimist did not mean unconditional happiness. There was nothing fun about being blind, and even as Steve waited for a cure, he grew to resent his condition more and more each day. Steve was an artist. Even in the darkest of situations, he lived in color; in the splotches of red and gold flowing out of his sketchbook with unnerving regularity, of the green and purple fill-ins, and the red and black blurs of power, a red cape in the wind, and an archer's purple bow. Steve spent his nights watching the sunsets, breathing in the bursts of reds and oranges, of purples and pinks that lit up the sky. Steve marveled at the blue of the morning and the light red feathers on a bird's back when it chirped him awake too early.

What was more, Steve was a planner. Endlessly observant, aware of even the smallest details, Steve was the captain of their team for a reason—a man who could pick out the subtleties and tie them together in a foolproof plan that usually worked out in the end. Steve was constantly surveying his surroundings, searching for the details, for the full picture.

Now, the picture was gone. Now he stared forever into blackness and tried to piece the characters together on TV when all he could hear were their voices. There were no more missions—for how could a blind man stand up to the chaos and insanity his team faced on a daily basis. There were no more paintings, no more sketches. Now, time seemed to go on forever, afternoons spent eating and listening—music, radio talk shows, and Tony's endless commentary on everything from what the team was doing, to his projects, to the chipmunk out the window.

It wasn't all bad, of course. From day one, Tony had done everything in his power to make life easier for Steve. The cane was a miracle in itself, but for Tony, it was only the start. By the third day, he'd programmed the whole tower to accommodate the soldier; everything under voice control, and a week in, a new bot appeared by his side, ready to help him with anything at all.

Steve spent most of his time in Tony's lab. He usually did this anyway, sketching away at a project while Tony tinkered, but these days, he needed the space more than ever. Unlike the dark quiet of the other floors, Tony's workshop was always alive—a chaotic masterpiece even when Steve couldn't see it. There was music blasting from wall to wall, and bots rolling across the floor, JARVIS' snide retorts shot back at his creator's sarcastic comments, and Tony—never a man to stay silent—talked to himself nearly nonstop.

Now, without his art to distract him, Steve listened closer than ever. He listened to Tony's plans, to the science (confusing as it often was) that was behind each project. He listened to Tony's rants ("Yellow? why in the world would I paint my suit yellow? Gold. It's supposed to be gold, you useless bot. That's it, I'm donating you to the local park. You're going to be a play thing for annoying snotty little kids to sit on your back and rock back and forth. Jay, what are those things called?"). He listened to the small things that Tony would say without meaning to—the memories of his father that seeped through accidentally, the sarcastic little statements that held back years of pain and repression, the self-deprecating comments that always left a hollow aching in Steve's chest.

That afternoon, two weeks after Steve's accident and ten hours after he'd found Tony passed out over his research, the two were back in the workshop. Tony had dove straight into his work, determined as he was to fix Steve's "predicament"—to fix everything, everyone but himself. The scientist was now mumbling quietly, spouting out equations and ideas, while Steve sat on the couch, petting Dum-E who purred occasionally like an overeager kitten. It wasn't how Steve had seen his week going, but it wasn't bad either. Two weeks, and much of his hope had died out, but still a small flame lingered in his chest.

"Let's go out," he said suddenly.

"Huh?" Tony said which roughly translated to 'I'm neck deep into whatever I'm working on and have acknowledged the sound of human speaking patterns, but did not hear you.'

Steve smiled lightly. "Let's go out. For lunch. I'm starving. And you've been working for too long, so let's go out." He stopped petting Dum-E, much to the bots displeasure (he chirped rather glumly), and grabbed his cane instead. He rose to his feet, crossed the room with the correct number of steps, and stopped before Tony's workbench. He reached out and squeezed the man's stiff, overworked shoulder.

"Come on," he repeated. Tony needed the break.

Steve could feel the other man stretching, then nod. "Yeah, yeah, okay," he said.

A few days ago, Steve mad have found 'going out' impossible. Without his sight, the city was practically a war zone (he'd know); with cars and pedestrians and thieves on every corner, it was a disaster waiting to happen, and a disaster he tackled nearly every day since. The first day, he'd had Tony by his side, helping him to count (and program the cane with) the number of steps from the elevator to the front door, from the front door to the end of the pavement, from the pavement to a cab, and on and on it went. He always took a cab—eliminating most of the dangers of walking the city himself—and in this way, he found he was rather unrestricted. He could still go out and eat at his favorite pizzeria, could still order tacos from the place on the corner, still spend a day in Central Park, enjoying the spring breeze on his face and the sunshine on his back.

He just couldn't see it anymore. Gone were the days of watching passersby and wondering about their private lives, or watching the birds fly by overhead, the ducks line up in the pond. No longer could he see the overly bright napkins of that burger place down on fourth, but he could still taste that special sauce they always used that he could never quite name.

It was a life that would take getting used to and one he still desperately hoped he wouldn't have to.

He and Tony stopped at their normal burger joint—not the one with the bright napkins, but the one with the talking burger on the sign out front, a sign Steve would never see again. From the moment they'd started up this friendship of theirs, the burger joint had become "their" place, their number one pick when venturing out together or when they were hungry after a mission including just the two of them. Over the months, it become one of Steve's favorite parts of the day, not that he was ready to admit that any time soon.

They ordered their regular orders and sat at their regular table in the back. When their food came—hot to the touch and smelling better than ever before—Steve didn't hesitate to reach out and take a bite.

"It tastes better, right?" Tony said. "I'm telling you. It's science. You lose one sense, the others feel stronger. I bet that burger is orgasmic. I mean, fuck, they're already great, how much better can they be?" Tony's voice grew steadily more muffled as Steve could only guess that he was currently stuffing his face with his own burger. He could imagine it well enough; no cameras around, and Tony was like a kid—talking too fast and eating too fast, oil stains on his shirt and ketchup dripping down one side of his mouth. He was unpolished: Steve's favorite version of him.

He only wished he could still see it; so few people got that luxury.

"It's great," he agreed, grinning unreasonably wide for a man just talking about a burger.

"You need to try hot sauce," Tony said.

Steve rolled his eyes. "We've been through this. I like hot sauce. Hot sauce existed in the forties, I am not surprised or stunned by its existence, and—"

"Yeah, but that was when you had eyes. We're testing a theory, okay? Just…go with it." As Tony reached out for the hot sauce, his hand brushed against Steve's, and for the first time, Steve got it; his sense of touch was stronger than ever before. At least, it had to be; why else would every nerve in his body feel as thought it was on fire after just a single brush of skin on skin; why else did the simple little touch make his cheeks heat up and his heart start pounding? Either his senses had changed, or his heart had, and he wasn't sure he was ready to find out which one.

He cleared his throat and tucked his hands back under the table. "Yeah, sure, Tony. Whatever you say."


	5. Chapter 5

Movie nights were a vital part of the Avengers' bonding process. Steve couldn't tell you how it started or why they kept it up, but if you squinted, it almost made sense. Despite their shared occupation of occasionally saving the world and the fact that they were all pretty unusual and powerful in their own unique ways, the Avengers didn't really have much in common. A rich business man and genius engineer, a poor doctor with anger management issues, two government agents, a prince from a different planet, and Steve—a soldier from the 40's. Sometimes movies were the only things they agreed on. Not what movie, certainly—they argued about that constantly—but the fact that movies had a purpose, a universal message if you will—a story. And they could all relate to a good story, to the simple adventure of personhood. Movies were one thing in the world that didn't care if you were an engineer or a scientist, an assassin, a god, or a soldier.

Movies were their great unifier.

Most weeks, it went like this: if there was a battle beforehand, they showered, treated their wounds and collapsed in front of the TV to watch whatever popped up first because they were all far too tired to fight about it. If there wasn't a battle, they created one—each arguing their movie of choice until the winner beat the rest in a race to the DVD player. Usually, the winner was Natasha, though she took pity on them occasionally and let one of the men win—usually Steve or Bruce, sometimes Thor, Tony when she was feeling particularly generous, but never Clint. He'd whine in the corner for a while, but more often than not, he ended up enjoying the movie; he wouldn't admit it, but Steve could see it in his eyes.

They always ordered up the same. Clint and Natasha were on the smaller couch because neither of them knew how to take up room until they were sprawling all over each other like a couple of old college friends. Thor took up a sofa to himself because each one of his muscles needed its own arm rest. Bruce was on the comfy chair in the corner, content to sit alone but surrounded by others. And Steve and Tony took the couch at the back. Every night on the dot, when the credits started to roll and the group was beginning to yawn, Tony would rest his head in Steve's lap and do what was always so very rare for him: fall asleep. Strange as it was to say—and he hadn't, not out loud—Steve had always been rather proud about being the one pillow Tony Stark actually used.

The first week after Steve lost his sight, they cancelled movie night entirely. No one said anything about it, and it was never what Steve would call "official," but they simply failed to gather at 8:00 Saturday night like they normally did (movie night itself was also not "official" and yet they'd all met at the same time every week like some happy coincidence for months now). They never spoke about it after that, but everyone seemed to be on the same relative page: what was the point of watching a movie if you couldn't see it, and though Steve would gladly remove himself from the tradition and let the rest carry on, it just wasn't Movie Night without them all together.

So they'd ended it, and that was that until week two rolled around and at 7:50 on Saturday night, Tony called them all into the living room. Sitting at his feet were two large stacks of DVDs that he soon told Natasha to pick from. That was strange enough on its own; Tony was always the one to complain about the group's DVD obsession, arguing that JARVIS had every movie in existence stored on his database, not to mention Tony always complained when Natasha picked the movie or claimed that he was too busy for movie nights anyway (even as he settled down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn).

Tony had then grabbed Steve's arm, dragged him to the couch, and told him, in no uncertain terms, that visuals were overrated, and it was about time he learned to hear a movie the right way.

And so, here they were, a half hour into the Black Swan—a movie about ballerinas and mystery, Natasha's pick—and Tony was whispering a constant stream of narration into Steve's ear. It had started with what Steve could only assume were the facts—the facts, at least, how Tony saw them ("There are opening credits. Words are now appearing on the screen. There is a girl. She slightly resembles Jane—wow, fuck, she really resembles Jane) but over the course of the movie, Tony's commentary had become more and more opinionated ("Oh fuck, yeah, she's lost it. She's got the crazy eyes. Trust me, I know the crazy eyes when I see them, and those are the crazy eyes") until Steve doubted any of it had anything to do with the movie anymore at all ("So we've entered full on porn. What? I'm serious. This is porn unfolding in front of my young and virgin eyes—Bruce, I'm offended. Why are you laughing? For all you know—yeah, yeah, yeah, okay. Point taken.").

Steve had pretty much stopped paying attention halfway through. It was a nice idea, and he appreciated Tony's determination to make him feel normal, but the truth still remained: Steve wasn't normal, not anymore. Maybe he'd try again in the future, but movies just weren't the same without the pictures, and, anyway, Tony's constant whispering had the unfortunate side effect of leaving goosebumps all over Steve's skin and completely distracting him from everything else.

Sometime after the apparently-Jane-looking character yelled out, "I am the Swan Queen!" Clint threw a pillow at Tony's face. Steve knew this only because it brushed against his thigh due to Tony's current position in his lap. "Shut up!" the archer yelled. "I'm trying to watch Mila Kunis!"

Tony tossed the pillow back; Steve could tell this because Tony squirmed in his lap and the soft pressure of the pillow disappeared. Tony was right; these days, Steve was more aware of each and every sensation—sometimes, it was all he had.

"I'm helping!" Tony yelled back.

"Well help quieter," Clint said.

To Steve's surprise, Tony complied. Moving out of his lap, Tony repositioned himself so they were side to side then began whispering his commentary in Steve's ear—so close that Steve could feel each and every syllable vibrating against his skin. "Jane is freaking out because she thinks Mila Kunis is trying to steal her role or something because they both want to be the fairy princesses," Tony said.

"Swan Queen," Bruce corrected him.

"Right." Tony nodded; Steve could feel the movement against his neck. "So she's running down the hall, and the crazy eyes have hit monumental levels, which isn't super off from actual Jane. Have you seen her in the lab? You think I'm bad; you haven't seen anything until you've seen Jane two days into a project. It's like a science orgasm. What? it's true. It's not crude if it's true. Speaking of which, you should see Thor's face right now. This girl is going full brains out of your head nuts and he's still looking at her like he might hug the screen any second. We need to get Jane out here for a visit. Bruce would like that too. You should see those two talk. Once they get going…"

Tony ranted on and on, and hardly any of it was about the movie anymore. From the bits Tony had told him and the dialogue he'd managed to pick up when Tony wasn't speaking, Steve could piece together most of the film's plot, but, frankly, he didn't care. The movie seemed interesting enough—good, perhaps, if he'd had enough brain power to spare—but with every word he said, Tony's lips brushed Steve's ear, and Tony's hands pressed against Steve's thighs, and Tony's arm leaned against him—Tony everywhere—, and Steve suddenly had other things on his mind.

Like one very unfortunately timed erection.

Reaching out wildly, Steve grabbed the first thing he could find—a couch pillow, thank God—and used it to cover his crotch. Luckily, Tony was too engrossed in the movie—or at least his own version of it—to notice what was happening south of Steve's belt. For once, Steve was immensely glad for the distraction.

He wished he could tell himself it was just nature taking its course, that place anyone that close to his side and the intensity of skin-on-skin contact would have that effect on him. He told himself it was the lack of sight making his sense of touch so damn sensitive, that it was normal—that it could have happened with anyone. Steve was many things, but he was no idiot, and as nice as all these excuses sounded, they simply weren't the truth.

He'd be lying if he said it hadn't occurred to him before. It'd be pure denial to say he hadn't once noticed the way Tony's shirt would ride up occasionally in the lab or the lean expanse of muscle it revealed. He couldn't deny the way his eyes—when they'd worked—used to focus a little longer than was normal when Tony walked around in his boxers in the early morning, or how they'd focus on that little twitch of Tony's lips—that smirk—when he caught Steve swearing. Of course he was aware—even if it was drifting somewhere in the locked down parts of his subconscious—that his feelings for Tony lay somewhere beyond platonic friendship. But it'd all been hypothetical, a world of 'what-if's and 'never could be's.

Any chance Steve thought he might have had—any small inkling Tony might have shown of reciprocating his feelings—was gone now. Sure, Steve had hoped, had dreamed about it even, but that was when he'd been a full functioning adult—a hero. Now, he couldn't go on a mission with the rest of the Avengers; he could barely walk through the house on his own. Tony had been a miracle through this whole process—a real friend—but that was all it was—friendship—and that was all it ever would be.

Steve knew this—as he'd said, he was no idiot—and yet still he caught himself dreaming every once and a while. Like when Tony dragged him down to his lab to tell him about his next project, his voice exploding with that manic energy Steve had never heard on anyone else. Or when Tony gave him tasks, asked him for favors, or just generally treated him like any other capable member of the team and not the handicapped sidekick he feared he was becoming. When Tony leaned his head against Steve's shoulder after a long day and yawned—long and squeaky and nothing classy or showy like he'd been when Steve had first met him, all done up behind the Stark facade—the dreams all came rushing back.

Now, with Tony pressed against his side, his hot breath on his neck, Steve forced himself to breathe, to think of un-hot things to ease his predicament: dead puppies, and the time Clint had accidentally shot an arrow at Thor's ass, and that look Tony got on his face when someone brought up Howard, sushi, and gunshots in the night. It worked—though slowly—and eventually Steve was again granted the ability to move without fear of revealing his whole embarrassing crush against Tony's thigh.

"So the Jane-look-alike is dead," Tony whispered. "Pretty sure. She looks pretty dead."

Steve nodded, grateful for the excuse to be sad and thoroughly drown out the rest of his excitement. "Sad movie," he said, and though he wasn't sure at all what had happened, he was sure he meant it; from what he'd picked it up, it sure sounded sad.

Tony nodded and yawned; Steve cursed himself for the way that small, innocent little sound made his heart start racing. "Yup," Tony said. "Well I've got to finish…something." He leaned his head against Steve's shoulder, and Steve could have sworn he could actually feel the energy drain from the engineer's body. Despite Tony's declarations of getting back to work, he went boneless against Steve's arm, and in a matter of seconds, his breathing had evened out. He was asleep.

Steve wrapped his spare arm around Tony's body like a blanket. He hated himself for the thought, but he knew in that moment that he'd be quite happy to go to bed like this every night—crammed together on the couch, uncomfortable and stiff, with Tony in his arms.


	6. Chapter 6

Three weeks post-blindness and two o'clock in the morning, Tony dragged Steve down to his workshop, bouncing with manic excitement and looking like he'd just survived a tornado. His hair stuck up in all directions, there were bags under his eyes, and a clump of grease stuck to his neck. The descriptions came via JARVIS' descriptions of course, whispered to Steve just before Tony arrived in the hall, but Steve desperately wished he could see it. Despite his initial worries over Tony's less than healthy habits, he was pleased to know that his friend was excited about his work.

He was less pleased when he learned that the "work" in question was all for him. Tony shouldn't have wasted his time.

"So this is it," Tony was saying, pulling Steve by the hand into the center of the room. (Steve absolutely did not let that small act give him any wrong ideas; it was a hand, for goodness sake, not a declaration of love. He knew that. He did. His heart was simply racing out of…curiosity. Yeah, that was it. Curiosity.) "I figured it out."

"Figured what out?" Steve narrowed his eyes as though this would help him see through the darkness to the answers Tony was supposedly creating.

"How to get you back on the field. What kind of team doesn't have a captain?" Tony asked.

"What kind of team has a blind captain?" Steve countered.

Tony placed something small in the palm of his hand. "A team with me on it. This goes in your ear. Try it."

Steve sighed. While he doubted that a simple comm was enough to make him useful again, he also doubted that Tony would ever hand him something as simple as a comm in the first place; after all, Tony did nothing small. Steve placed the thing—whatever it was—into his ear then startled as JARVIS' crisp voice surrounded him.

"Good morning, Captain," said the A.I. "I'm very sorry that Sir has awoken you at such an early hour."

"It's alright, JARVIS," Steve replied. "Can Tony hear you right now too, or just me?"

"I can hear you," Tony said to Steve.

"Only you, Master Rogers," JARVIS said.

Steve smiled lightly. "Steve, remember? Master really isn't necessary."

"As you wish."

"So," Steve paused and tapped at the thing in his ear. "I like JARVIS and all, but you said this 'fixes' everything? How so?"

"Like this." Tony placed something in Steve's hands that was unmistakable as anything but his shield. Next came his cowl, which Tony practically shoved over his forehead. "I have a test—"

"Tony—" Steve started, but Tony cut him off.

"Just humor me, alright? I have a test. A mock battle. I've been training JARVIS, and I worked out all the blind spots—literally. JARVIS is going to lead you through it. He'll be your eyes—those are in your Cap mask—and you be the rest of you. Just try it. Please?"

Tony's voice was so eager and hopeful that Steve couldn't bear to say no. Anyway, it was worth a try, wasn't it? If it didn't work, it didn't work, but there was no harm giving it a go; he had nowhere to go but up. He nodded. "Okay, let's give it a try."

Upon his command, the workshop transformed into a war zone. The sounds of gun shots and explosions erupted from all sides of him and JARVIS began to narrate in his ear—things like "on your right, a 40 degree angle, spin to the left, a hard kick up should do it" or "straight ahead, two steps forward and aim in line with your jaw, sir." It should have been distracting, but it wasn't somehow, JARVIS' commands so well-timed, so simple, that it really did feel as though Steve had been gifted a sort of "audible vision."

Twenty minutes and several "attacks" later, Steve stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard and smiling more than he had in weeks. "How'd I do?" he asked once the battle sounds had finally died away.

"Well all the mannequins I set up to fight you are on the ground bleeding styrofoam, so take that as you will." Tony stepped forward; Steve could hear his footsteps approaching until he was close enough that Steve could actually feel his presence in front of him. "So this should work. You put on the cowl, keep in the ear piece, and JARVIS has you covered. There's cameras at all angles. Back, front, sides, so nothing can sneak up on you and—"

Steve couldn't hold back. He'd tried to keep it inside, to keep his feelings in check. But with his excitement at an all time high, his adrenaline pumping, and his hope rearing its head after weeks of hibernation, all his reservations disappeared. He could be part of the team again; he could be useful again. After weeks of endless flashbacks, Steve no longer felt trapped in his life-long cycle—skinny and sickly and useless again; no longer did he have to worry about being a liability.

He kissed Tony before his mind's fears caught up with his body's choices. Tony's lips were rough—chapped from years of biting at them while he worked—and his goatee rubbed against Steve's jaw, sharp and stinging which somehow only made it better—more intense, more to remember. Even better, Tony seemed to melt against him. His hands—rough and callused as the rest of him, workers hands, hands that created—grasped at Steve's arms and pulled him closer.

Everything was perfect right up until the moment where Steve's mind clicked back on. He was kissing Tony. He was blind and a liability, and he was kissing his best friend—Tony who worked too hard, and moved too fast and deserved so, so much better.

He pulled away as quickly as if he'd been stung. "I'm sorry. Tony I am so, so sorry. I—"

In the darkness, Steve could not see Tony's expression, but the man's grip on his arms loosened—hesitant, reluctant. "What are you apologizing for? I've been wanting to do that for months."

Steve shook his head. His heart beat too fast against his rib cage, his was voice heavy in his throat, and his stomach squirmed uncomfortably. This wasn't how he'd planned this, wasn't anything like he'd hoped it would go. Months as friends thrown away because he couldn't keep his damn feelings to himself. "You don't have to pretend," he said. Pity was far worse than rejection. Steve had lost quite a lot that month, but he'd yet to lose his pride.

"Whose pretending?" Tony said.

Steve bit his lip, willing himself to say what he knew he had to. It simply wasn't fair to Tony to take this—whatever this was—any further. He had to end it, stop the fire before it lit, for both their sanities. Really, how long could Tony stay latched to a blind man before he tired of taking care of him? How long could Steve let him? Sooner or later, both of them would snap, Tony—overworked and tired of being a care giver—or Steve, humiliated and fighting both resentment and guilt in unison. Steve would rather stay ignorant to that sort of pain. "Tony, I am so grateful for everything you've done for me. Honestly, I don't know how I'd handle any of this if it wasn't for you. And I appreciate the cane, and the new equipment, but you've done enough. You don't have to go latching yourself to a blind guy just because you feel bad. That's a big commitment, and it's not necessary—"

Before Steve could finish his sentence, Tony surged forward, took Steve's face in both hands, and kissed him so hard that Steve rather forgot how to breathe. All he knew was the sensation of Tony's lips on his and the tingling warmth that it sent rushing through his body like wild fire. It seemed to last for ages before finally Tony pulled away.

"First of all, you never have been and you never will be a liability," he said. "You're blind, not broken. I've seen you, and you're just as capable as the rest of us, on the field and off. Second, this isn't pity, and if you think it is, we have a lot bigger problems. This—us standing here and you fucking knocking the air out of me with a kiss like that, and me kissing back—that's me wanting to kiss you since the Chitauri, that's me trying to work up the fucking nerve to do it for months. So if anyone here is going to feel sorry, it should be you because you picked a real fucking mess to kiss. Third, if you don't drop this and kiss me again, I'm going to need a drink."

Everything inside Steve's mind seemed to freeze over as he listened to Tony speak. It would be so easy to believe, to let himself go, but Steve wasn't exactly known for taking the easy way out. Where would they be a week from now, a month, a year, when Steve still couldn't watch a simple movie or go out to eat without the aid of a cane and a robotic voice in his head?

"It's not going to be as easy as you're making it sound," Even as he said it, Steve could feel his resolve slipping away. Still, Tony deserved to know what he was getting into.

"What? Because you can't see my beautiful face? I have mirrors." Tony rested one hand against Steve's jaw and took a step closer until they stood chest to chest. "I'll describe it. I've got dazzling brown eyes—"

Steve bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Tony, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, well, I know what I mean," Tony countered.

"That doesn't make sense."

"Sure it does." Tony kissed him again—soft and short and everything Steve had secretly been hoping for for months. "Means I get it. And if someday you want to go full Helen Keller, then we'll get real well acquainted with your sense of touch. That…was dirtier than I meant it to be. Sentiment still remains."

"Tony—" Steve started but Tony cut him off.

"What? What am I supposed to be afraid of? That it's going to be hard? Are you at all aware of our lives? Hard is the game plan. Ooh, that was good too. Yeah, let's do that. Me, you, hard, games—"

"Tony."

"Yes, Dear?"

"Your point?" Steve tried to keep a straight face, but it was a losing battle.

"Right. Point is, you cut off your legs, I'll make a rocket wheelchair."

Steve sighed and rake a hand through his hair. It was overgrown, long and falling before his eyes—not that that mattered anymore. Before he could say a word, however, Tony reached out and grabbed his hand.

Giving it a small squeeze, he said. "You're worth it. Now stop worrying, and kiss me already."

Steve had never been too good at following orders—a terrible soldier, honestly, at least in the traditional sense—but he thought he could make an exception in Tony's case. "Yes, Dear," he repeated and, without further argument, he kissed Tony all over again.


	7. Chapter 7

Sparring with Natasha was always an educational experience.

Contrary to popular belief, Steve's "delicate 1940's sensibilities" did not leave him with a fear of strong women; in fact, it was quite the opposite. For as long as Steve could remember, he'd always been surrounded by powerful members of the opposite sex. His mother, for one, was a fiercely independent woman, a strong worker, a quick thinker, a woman with an accepting mind and an even more accepting heart. She'd raised him alone for most of his life, and though they didn't always have an easy life, she'd made the most out of even the smallest miracles. Kindness and compassion were so often written off as "weak feminine traits," but Steve had never known a greater power; how could anyone be stronger than a woman who made everything from nothing? It took heart—took guts—to continue hoping, to love, and to hold your head up high when the world kept crashing down on your shoulders. He could only hope to be as a good man as she was a woman.

And then, of course, there was Peggy. The first time he ever set eyes on the woman he'd almost had a date with, she punched a soldier straight in the face. That was all he'd needed to know. Peggy fought the good fight, and she did it with class; between her sharp mouth and her quick fists, she had her bases covered. Steve had no doubts that she could have won the war herself if only she'd been given the opportunity.

The twenty-first century was filled with strong women—Pepper, for starters. Steve had only met her a handful of times, but she'd blown him away on every occasion, both for her hard work and for her uncanny ability to terrify Tony into signing papers on command. Then there was Jane, unbelievably intelligent and a huge asset to their team, and Betty—sharp as a tack and as beautiful as a painting. And, of course, Natasha.

Natasha, for all her beauty, was unlike any other girl Steve had ever met. She was smart,—certainly—tough,—undoubtedly—and an excellent member of their team whom he was proud to have called his partner in many a SHIELD case. She was also a gifted liar, a seductive mastermind, and had the quite unique talent of killing men with her thighs. Not to mention she was one of the only members of their team who could beat Steve in a fight.

That afternoon, she had him flat on his back in under fifteen minutes—a new record. Her thighs wrapped around his throat until he tapped the mat in surrender. She grinned then rolled effortlessly onto her feet and offered him a hand. He stood, but with far less grace. "You're distracted," she said. It was not a question; with Natasha, things rarely were—just strong declarative statements about your life that was always right and unnervingly perceptive.

Steve shrugged and rubbed his shoulder where she'd pressed it particularly hard into the mat. "Well, I'm not exactly on the top of my game, am I?" he said.

"This was not about you being blind." There was the sound of Natasha drinking—water or something stronger, he never could tell; she certainly never showed signs of intoxication, and it was Clint—not Nat—that Tony always blamed for raiding his personal bar. (Why anyone needed a personal bar, Steve would never understand; why Tony needed a personal bar terrified him on every level—many of which made his heart ache just thinking about.) But Natasha drank the entire team under the table every time they went out. Well, except for maybe Thor.

"You can hear me coming. Even without Tony's cameras, you know what you're doing," Natasha continued. She moved closer; her footsteps sent the whole mat vibrating with her, and Steve knew she was doing it on purpose. You only knew Natasha was coming if she wanted you to know. "This was something else. So did you two just kiss or you jump into bed first chance you got?"

Steve blinked, then remembered it was pointless. Whether he could physically see them or not, the images continued to play through his mind, images of him and Tony and the too-expensive sheets on Tony's too-expensive bed. No matter how hard he tried to ignore them, they refused to disappear. "What?" he asked after an embarrassingly long pause.

"You and Tony. I have a bet to win."

Steve let out an indignant stutter that came out a lot more like "whabuno" than anything half-way intelligible. "We just—how did you even know that?"

"Just kissed. Figured. Clint saw you from the vents." With the casual way she spoke, you would have thought Natasha was simply speaking of the weather. Steve had discovered long ago that nothing surprised his team. "'Bout time."

When Steve didn't speak (because Steve couldn't possibly think of anything in the world to say to that), Natasha continued with her train of thought, pacing around the mat until Steve could feel every step. "We've had a bet going for months. Since…well, pretty much since we moved in here. You might be a super human, Steve, but you certainly don't move at a super pace."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, to claim that the feelings were new, that he couldn't possibly have known what Tony was feeling, and that they were moving at a perfectly reasonable pace. But around the moment the words came to mind, he closed his mouth. He was an idiot. They both were.

How many nights had Tony fallen asleep in his lap? How many days had they spent alone, out at dinner or lunch, or breakfast if Steve could swing it (he wasn't even sure if Tony remembered those mornings, but Steve did—bed head, Tony's gruff morning voice, and a table full of coffee)? How many afternoons had they explored the town—gone to museums and movies and theme parks and carnivals, to Central Park and Times Square—and all those places he only now realized were probably date locals? Was it possible that they'd been dating all along, only to get the memo just now?

"I could have done something months ago, couldn't I?" he asked Natasha.

She laughed—a sound Steve would never tire of hearing. "Yeah, I think you could. Thor thought you already were. He was ready to congratulate you two three months ago."

Steve chuckled to himself while he rubbed the small bit of scruff under his neck. Months. Steve wasn't the type to get hung up on the past—he couldn't be, given his, well, unique situation—but it sure would have been nice to have those months back—just him and Tony and everything out in the open. "I just thought—" He trailed off. What had he thought? That just because Tony hadn't show up at the hospital that day—just because he didn't come running to Steve's bedside at the first little sign of injury—he suddenly didn't care? Hadn't Tony proved since then that he did?

"The day of your accident I think we all stopped breathing," Natasha said as though she'd read his mind. She did that quite a lot. "We thought—well, that doesn't matter. You're okay. You're here. That's what's important. But Tony was the one that you got you out of there. After you were attacked, he finished off the beasts you were fighting, and he carried you out. Even at the hospital, he wouldn't leave your side. He stayed there all night, and then in the morning, when I came to check in on you again, he asked me to stay and he went back to the tower. We found some of the projects later. He was trying to make you new eyes." She laughed slightly—more fond than amused. "He wasn't there because he was trying to fix this. We all were. We all are. And we'll find a solution, Steve. Just don't go waiting for your life to start again. You're still here. And Tony? Well, Tony cares; he just has a different way of showing it."

She moved across the mat a last time, then, with a small pat on his shoulder, she stepped off. He listened to her footsteps, counting each one until he knew she was gone.

Later that night, Steve counted his way down to Tony's lab. He kept JARVIS turned off, wanting to navigate alone, and entered his code to the workshop without assistance. The numbers came—ten to the left, five forward, two to the right—but he found that he hardly needed them anymore; walking on instinct, he crossed the workshop, stepped over the fallen projects, and side-stepped an excited bot until he came to stand behind Tony's chair.

Reaching out, he placed his hands on the man's shoulders and gave them a small, loving squeeze. "Thank you," he whispered. He pressed a kiss to the top of Tony's head.

The engineer turned in his chair; Steve could not only hear the noise of it—a metallic, rusting squeak—but feel Tony's muscles shifting under his grip. "What'd I do?" he asked. His voice spoke of long nights, of too much work and too little sleep—gruff around the edges and lacking his normal, energetic bounce.

Steve wondered how many of those hours he'd spent on him—how many hours used building the next great revolutionary thing for the blind, the next sightless-fighting thingamajig, the next self-navigating whatchamacallit.

And this was the man the media still called selfish.

Steve was not unaware of Tony's questionable past, not oblivious to his faults; but people changed, and he'd never been happier to be proven wrong: Tony was the last person Tony was fighting for, not the only one.

He shook his head. "Just…thank you."


	8. Chapter 8

This was not at all how Steve imagined his first time happening.

For starters, he'd always thought he'd be able to see the person he was making love to—and yes, he'd wanted 'to make love' at least the first time. Whatever the history books said about the 1940's, and no matter how "tame" the period was thought to be when it came to sex, Steve was not exactly new to the idea of "fucking." He was not shocked or appalled by the sexual appetite of the twenty-first century or apposed to a sexually active lifestyle in any way. People were certainly having sex in the 1940's; Steve just wasn't one of them.

It wasn't for lack of trying, of course. But when you only weighed ninety pounds and couldn't convince a girl to even dance with you, it was nearly impossible to bring a woman back to bed. Men weren't even an option—not when the very idea was illegal at the time—and Steve hardly thought it mattered; man or woman, who wanted to sleep with someone they'd crush in bed?

Anyway, Steve had always imagined his first time would have meaning. Call him an old romantic, but he wanted something to remember. It didn't have to be true love—not necessarily—but someday when he was old and settled down, he'd like to think of his "first" with fond memories.

Over the years, it was a sentiment Steve had held for many things in his life. Steve would always remember his first carnival ride with Bucky, his and Bucky's first movie, the first art show (street side, as that was all they could afford) he saw with his mother, his first nice restaurant dinner with The Avengers—the first in his life—, and his first double cheeseburger with Tony. His first 3-D movie with Tony, and his first museum walk with Tony; his and Tony's first hotdog in Central Park, and his first Latte, also with Tony. The more he thought about it, the more Steve realized just how many 'firsts' he and Tony had acquired in just a few short months.

Fitting then, that his biggest "first" of them all would be Tony's doing as well.

"Are you always going to blush like this? Because if you are, I might not ever let you leave this room," Tony said. His voice—teasing as it was—was not unkind, which was good, because Steve wasn't in any position to be offended; he wasn't sure that there was even room left in his head at this point. Not with Tony straddling his waist, not an inch of skin restricted to Steve's touch. From the second Tony disposed of his clothing, Steve's brain had been a fuzzy, glorious blur.

At least until he realized he had no idea what he was doing.

"I'm not blushing," he protested even as he felt the heat rising in his face. Barely five minutes in, and he was already screwing everything up. He could feel Tony's warmth around him, his thighs pressed against Steve's, his hands wandering, and it was easy to lose himself in that alone: Tony's hands on his chest, and on his shoulders, cupping his face, and sliding down his legs—Tony everywhere. The only problem was, he couldn't see a damn thing. Anyone who chose to have sex in the dark was either very skilled or very stupid, because without being able to see what he was doing, Steve felt completely useless.

"You're blushing," Tony said again. This time, his words were accompanied with several long, lingering kisses over the length of Steve's neck. It was becoming increasingly hard to keep focused when all the blood in his body was so quickly racing south. Tony splayed his hands over Steve's chest as he sucked a hickie into his shoulder blade, eliciting a long, embarrassing moan from Steve that he hadn't even known he was capable of.

"And it's amazing, and you should never, ever stop," Tony continued. Each word brought on another kiss to Steve's jaw, and neck, and chest, and even his damn fingertips—and who knew Steve was so sensitive there?

"I can't think when you do that," Steve managed, surprised to hear his own voice out loud—more high pitched and desperate sounding than he'd ever heard it, more than he ever thought was even possible. Was that really him?

"Then don't think," Tony said. "Just feel." His hands drifted, lower, lower, lower until Steve reached out a hand to stop him; the act alone took all his willpower to manage.

"I need to think," he repeated. "I want this to be good. I want—"

Tony cut him off by kissing him full on the mouth. "It'll be good. It doesn't matter, Steve, okay? Whatever happens, it'll be good. This isn't battle. You don't have to be," He paused to press a kiss against Steve's collarbone, "the man with a plan. There's no strategy here. You just…let it happen."

Steve frowned. It sounded good enough in theory, and up until that moment, he had never allowed himself to be discouraged by Tony's far larger sexual resume. But as a blind virgin without a single clue of what to do, Steve suddenly felt Tony's experience looming over him like a heavy weight on his chest. If only he could see what he was doing, perhaps he could make things better, but as it was, he was a fumbling idiot in the dark.

"How about," Tony rubbed circles over Steve's chest and flicked twice over his already overly sensitive nipples. Steve barely held back another moan. "You just lay back and—"

"I want to do it," Steve said, stubborn even at the worst of moments. If he was a smarter man, he'd have given in, would have done as Tony said and just enjoyed the sensations, but Steve wanted so much more than just a "good" first experience: he wanted everything. He wanted to feel Tony's body against his, wanted to explore every inch, to know what it felt like to get that close, but more than that, he wanted to do it right, wanted to do good.

Tony sighed, but it sounded more fond than anything else. "Okay," he said, and he pulled away. For one small, irrational moment, Steve thought Tony was going to leave, but a second later, Tony pressed a bottle into his hand and flipped them, so he was flat on the bed and Steve was hovering above. "Lube," Tony explained. He pressed another item into Steve's hand—one for which Steve didn't need the upcoming explanation. "And a condom. Explore away, Captain."

Steve stifled a laugh. "Really? Captain jokes? Right now?" he said.

Tony laughed, but rather than answer, he reached out for Steve and cupped his face in both hands. For several long moments, Steve allowed himself to get lost in the sensation, kissing Tony for everything he was worth. For those few fleeting, wonderful seconds, he couldn't think of anything in the world worth worrying about. Everything seemed absolutely and completely right.

When, finally they pulled away, Steve turned over the bottle of lube and poured a bit out into his hand, warming it against his palm before coating his fingers and then his cock. From there on out, everything else was trial and error. There were no convenient voice commands for Tony's body the way there for the tower, no numbered steps to take to find the right spot, and he stumbled frequently, moving too fast or too slow or reaching out for the empty sheets rather than Tony's skin. In the darkness, his sense of direction was rather skewed.

After the first fumble, Steve became so frustrated and embarrassed that he fell forward and buried his face in Tony's chest. Tony laughed and immediately reached out to hold him close, his face pressed against Steve's hair as he whispered, more amused than anything else, "You're fine, sweetheart. That's normal."

Steve groaned, his face a heated mess. He could feel his whole body burning—from arousal or sheer mortification, he couldn't tell anymore. "Nothing about this is normal," he said, but it came out as more of a laugh than anything else. Tony wiggled underneath him, bumping Steve's thigh with his own.

"A man can die of blue balls, you know," he said, and Steve laughed despite himself.

He never did get it right, or at least what he'd thought his definition of "right" was before they started. It was better. It took them a while to find the right pace, but in the end, they found their rhythm, and Steve found that he didn't need his eyes to know what he was doing. He judged his movements simply on the specific way Tony moaned or the way he shifted closer; he navigated Tony's body with his hands and his mouth. The two senses more than made up for the one lost.

In the end, it didn't matter that he couldn't see because he could feel everything. When it was all over, and they lay in a sweaty mess of tangled limbs, Steve could not have hoped for more.

"That live up to your expectations?" Tony asked. He was leaned back against his pillow while Steve rested his head on Tony's chest, the man's fingers slowly weaving their way through Steve's hair. Tony's voice rang with amusement, but the underlying note of actual curiosity (and maybe even a pang of worry) came through clear as day.

Steve pressed a kiss against Tony's skin. "Better," he said truthfully.

He couldn't remember falling asleep, just that when he woke up, it was to the sound of a phone ringing and the feel of Tony's shallow breathing beneath his head. Steve reached out, more disoriented than he'd been since the first day he'd lost his vision and finally found his phone thrown under the bed. He answered it on the last ring while Tony groaned and mumbled things like 'too early' and 'make them go away.'

Steve smiled and kissed Tony's hand before he pressed his ear to the phone.

It was the doctor. Steve had checked in with him once or twice since the accident, but because none of the medical staff had thought him capable of recovery, they'd generally lost touch. "Steven?" asked the stiff voice that Steve was sure he'd never be able to put a face to.

"Yes?"

Tony straightened beside him, his hand reaching out to grasp Steve's. Steve squeezed it briefly while he listened.

"I have good news. We think we might have figured it out. We think we can save your eyes. When is the soonest you can come into the hospital?"

Steve's heart plummeted into his stomach, and his throat seemed to close off entirely, words moving far too slow from his brain to his lips. After months spent in darkness, could there really be a fix? Could things really change? "I—yeah. Uh, how's today? Noon?" he managed finally.

"That'll be great," said the doctor. "We'll see you then."

Steve hung up. As he let the phone fall back to the floor, he squeezed Tony's hand and wondered what the scene before him might look like, what it'd be like to see everything all over again.


	9. Chapter 9

"You ready?" asked both the doctor and Tony in unison.

Steve sat in the middle of a hospital room, his hands clasped in his lap while his doctor and lover both paced around the room, too nervous to be comforting but too caring not to be. Thick bandages wrapped around his eyes; despite the pressing sensation and the knowledge that something was on him (his sense of touch was still very strong), Steve felt no real difference from his normal, everyday life. Everything was still dark. Everything was still missing.

He shifted in his seat and shrugged. "Ready," he said. In all honesty, he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready; if the surgery didn't work, they were back at square one, and then what was there left to hope for? There were no cures lingering out in the nine realms, no secrets buried in the mind of any human Natasha or Clint could find, and if Tony, Bruce, and the doctors combined all came up with nothing, then Steve would be forced to concede; he was blind. This—the darkness, the counting, the listening for every footstep around him—was his life. This was permanent.

In the days leading up to his surgery and the moments just before he'd fallen under anesthesia, Steve had convinced himself that he could live without his sight. Everyone told him to be hopeful—to believe that the surgery would work, and then it would—but it was the worst case scenario that got him out of bed every morning. It was the simplicity of a survivor's instincts that kept him pushing on. If this didn't work, he could still survive, still fight, still navigate and be part of a team, still be normal—or as normal as their lives would allow. He could still love.

From that first day post-blindness, Steve had learned to survive, and from that moment on, he refused to be helpless. He was blind not dead, after all. If this was his life, so be it.

But all the determination in the world couldn't quite kill the hope, that small flame somewhere deep inside that said, "Maybe this is it. maybe this will work. maybe you'll see again."

The doctor crossed the room—Steve counted the footsteps—then Tony followed. Steve shivered when the first glove-covered finger brushed his temple then he stilled entirely. He waited as the doctor peeled off the bandages, layer by layer, and, as each layer disappeared, so did a bit of the darkness. At first, it was nothing but a bright, disorienting white light, then, as the last bandage fell away, spots of blue appeared like the first drops of color on a white canvas.

Steve blinked, and the blue became clearer—a bright and familiar light, an aura of of sorts that surrounded a splotch of brown and tan and black. Lines appeared from the brown—hair, he guessed—and words he couldn't yet read materialized over the black blur. After a long moment where he simply blinked repeatedly and hoped to God that what he was seeing was a good thing—that it was progress—the black and white thing became a shirt. Tony's shirt. Tony's oh-so-familiar Radiohead t-shirt with the reactor burning a blue glow right through the center. Then there was Tony's hair. And Tony's jeans. And Tony's tan skinned, and before Steve had time to adjust, there he was. Tony, in the flesh, standing above him, looking more worried than Steve had ever seen. Tony's brown eyes, and messy hair, and grease stained t-shirt.

And then there was everything. The doctor in his white coat—a short man with red hair and a very freckled nose—, and green and blue and red and orange posters on the wall. There was a white sheet beneath Steve, and a blue pillow, and Steve swore in that moment that he would never take simple colors for granted again. The hospital room held a whole lot of sterile white, but it was beautiful. Visual and beautiful.

He blinked again, and again, and again; he pinched his arm and his leg and anywhere else he could reach just to make sure—absolutely positively sure—that this was not a dream. He could see. The procedure had worked, and he could see. When he'd dreamed of this moment—in those small hopeful moments of fantasy he'd allowed himself—he'd never quite been able to pinpoint what it might feel like, what he'd do if this moment actually came. He knew he'd be excited, knew he'd be happy.

What he didn't expect was to jump out of his seat and almost knock Tony off his feet in his haste to kiss him.

He grinned as he pulled away and began to trace the lines of Tony's face. He touched his beard, his cheeks, his jaw—everything Steve had felt so many times over the last few weeks, everything he'd seen long ago, but it was all somehow different now. He and Tony were different now, and after everything that had happened between them, Steve just couldn't help but revel in the moment.

Luckily, Tony allowed it. He stood still as a statue, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth, while Steve ran his hands down his chest and arms and waist. The doctor stood somewhere off to Steve's left, and Steve meant to thank him—would thank him—but for the moment, his attention was completely and utterly fixed on the man in front of him. On Tony. On that fact that he could actually truly see Tony, and not just in his imagination.

"Everything as you remembered it?" Tony asked. Steve knew that tone—the one that meant Tony was amused when he thought he should be serious. Suddenly, the last thing in the world Steve wanted was to be serious.

He gripped Tony's shoulders, very conscious of his strength, but smiling more than he had in ages. At least, he'd thought it had been ages, but now that he remembered back, hadn't it been just yesterday that he'd been laughing until his stomach hurt? Hadn't he grinned until his jaw ached just a night ago when Tony had told him a truly awful joke, or earlier that afternoon when he'd caught Natasha and Bruce baking in the communal kitchen? He hadn't seen a bit of it—hadn't seen Tony's laugh or Natasha's smirk, or the cupcake batter streaked in Bruce's hair—but he'd still been there. He'd still laughed along, still joined in on the cupcake making and been part of the team. He hadn't needed his eyes for any of that.

"You alright?" Tony asked. Sometime during Steve's dazed train of thought, Tony had buried his hand in Steve's hair and was now stroking it back from his face. Steve could only imagine what he'd looked like; a man with new eyes, staring off into the distance, a million miles away.

He nodded and smiled reassuringly. "I'm great," he said. He'd truly never meant the phrase more than he did in that moment. He kissed Tony again, just because he could, then turned to shake the doctor's hand.

Later, as he and Tony left the hospital together, Steve watched the world pass by like he was seeing it all for the first time. The birds, the trees, flowers, and the passersby on every street and every corner—the whole world, a vivid canvas of color and movement. He ached for a pen and paper to eternalize it all right then and there.

Tony played with Steve's fingers as they walked. With his other free hand, Steve reached out for a crutch he no longer needed.

"I'm not going to need that cane anymore," he whispered.

"Yeahhh," Tony said. "You're not going to want it now. I never told you this, but it's actually covered in little American flags. But pink, purple, and lime green instead of red, white, and blue."

"So patriotic gummy bears." Steve shrugged. He knew it was a lie—he knew Tony's joking voice far better than Tony thought—but still the ridiculous image came as some small comfort. Something normal to hang on to; seeing or not seeing, blind or not, it was still just the two of them—stupid jokes and long walks through the city. He could do this. This was normal. This was right.

They reached the tower and took Tony's private elevator up to his room. Steve had his own floor, and sometimes—in the afternoons mostly when he went to change after a long day in the gym—he still used it. But Tony's room was the place he slept, his side of the bed dented in just enough to tell you exactly who had been there night after night.

Steve turned in the doorway and pulled Tony in by the belt loops of his worn out jeans. Steve had missed seeing the stains, the rips—all those little imperfections that said Tony Stark was off the clock and the Tony that remained was all his. Tony always tasted like coffee and smelled like metal and something natural Steve couldn't place; though Steve no longer needed to rely on his other senses to navigate, he appreciated their use in that moment all that much more. Once upon a time, he'd relied only on what he could see; now he wanted everything.

"Are we about to have celebratory 'I can see' sex, because I'm a hundred percent in for that," Tony said.

Steve pulled away and made quite a show of looking Tony up and down. "Wait, are you the guy I'm dating? Huh, different than I imagined," he said.

Tony raised an eyebrow, though the smile had yet to leave his face. "Oh yeah, what'd you imagine?"

Steve forced himself to keep a straight face as he said, "I thought you'd be taller."

Tony shoved him playfully across his shoulder. "It's called 'fun-sized,' you giant."

"Whatever you say." Steve wrapped his arms around Tony's waist and pressed a kiss to his neck first, then his jaw, then finally his lips. Then he pulled away to admire his work—to see Tony's kiss-bruised lips and the gentle red marks on his skin. "Will you do something for me?" Steve asked.

Tony nodded without a moment's hesitation. Steve did not take the action for granted, all too aware of the sort of trust such an instant reaction must mean for Tony; it was an honor Steve would never take advantage of. He crossed the room in two short strides and picked up his sketchbook from the spot where he'd left it, abandoned and untouched for weeks on the bedside table.

The first week after he went blind, Steve had attempted to throw it away; what good were his sketches—a very visual medium of art—when he couldn't see what he was drawing, what he'd already drawn? Steve found it in Tony's drawer a month later. He'd sworn up and down and sideways that he hadn't opened it, hadn't even peeked, but he couldn't just let it all go to waste. He was saving it, he said. When Steve had asked what for, Tony had simply shrugged and said, "For you."

Now, Steve couldn't have been more grateful for Tony's foresight. Scanning his eyes over the worn cover, flipping through the first few wrinkled pages, Steve sighed contentedly then pulled the sketchbook close to his chest. For a moment—just one small second—he stopped. He stopped thinking, stopped planning, stopped doing anything at all but appreciating the brand new chance he'd been given.

Then he held up the sketchbook.

Tony's eyebrow quirked up and he gave Steve his best sultry face. "You going to draw me like one of your French girls?" he asked.

Steve laughed. He flipped open the book and placed it in Tony's hand. "It's always been you," he said. Page after page, sketch after sketch, they were all the same: Tony in the Iron Man suit, Tony working, Tony yelling at a coffee pot, Tony's hands and the arc reactor, Tony playing with Dum-E or You, Tony arguing with JARVIS. The others were there too—short sketches of Natasha's smile and her battle face, Clint's laugh and his arrows, Thor's hammer and his grin and his pop-tart crumbs lining the floor like some fairytale crime scene. Bruce meditating or smiling across the room. The Avengers had all played a part in Steve's life—both post ice and post blindness. They'd made him feel like a part of a team and gave him purpose in a wide and confusing new world, and Steve owed them each tremendously.

But it was Tony that dominated the sketchbook and Tony that Steve kept coming back to; it was Tony that he needed. It was Tony that he loved.

"There's one more page," Steve explained. He flipped the sketchbook to the back, to that one small expanse of ink-less paper—a white canvas begging to be filled. Tony traced his fingers over the empty space then looked back up at Steve.

"If I have to," he said, even as his eyes shined happily and his mouth turned over into a bright, face-splitting smile that Steve was quite overjoyed to be able to finally see again.

"Alright," Steve said. "I'll see what I can do."


End file.
